Our Dying Wish
by SomberLuminosity
Summary: Sam doesn't necessarily understand the logistics of the universe. He doesn't understand the supremacy of fate, either. But this decision—this decision will be of his own doing. His only fear is the devil discovering it before he does.
1. Prologue

Prologue

* * *

Years ago, Sam would have never considered the significance of an idle placement of a single, green, army man. It was just a toy soldier bought at a convenience store to add to the near nonexistent pile of items he owned. It was a memory of his childhood with Dean, really, and now—by some inexplicable circumstance by fate—the reason for his freedom.

He could feel Lucifer retreating to the farther corners of his conscience, either stepping back or being blown backwards by the forces of Sam's emotions, he wasn't sure. All he could see before him now was his brother, bloody, beaten, and staring blearily up at him with wariness and regret as he prepared for another blow by Sammy's fisted hand.

Oh.

Recoiling from the iron tight grip on Dean's jacket, he stumbled over his own feet, wincing as the action immediately left his brother in a collapsed heap on the soil. There was too much red pouring from Dean. Too much blood loss. Sam felt his insides churning with despair— or maybe that was a Lucifer screaming from the inside. He didn't know anymore.

At Dean's sullen, confused gaze, Sam nodded shakily in reassurance, an unspoken question answered between them. He had the archangel firmly tamped down; for how long was uncertain. He did know he didn't have much time, and with a stuttering breath and final nod, he dug the horsemen's rings from his pocket.

It was strange, but as he stared at them, clutched tightly in his fingers, he couldn't help the sinking feeling that spread like spidery cracks across his chest, a lightheadedness suddenly gripping his body in earnest. Somehow, he knew Lucifer felt the same way.

He saw Jess in his mind's eye, smiling sadly at him as she tilted her head to the side, vanishing in a combustion of flames. He saw Mom and Dad, Bobby and Castiel, Bela and Gabriel. Strangely enough, it was the archangel's cocky form that lingered the longest, the daunting smirk absent for a change, and in its place a solemn and resolute look on his face. He stared at Sam without blinking an eye, tilting his chin up to accommodate his shortened height. Sam could heard the words almost as if they had been spoken.

_You're gonna have to finish this on your own, kid._

Sam swallowed around the uncomfortable lump in his throat; he didn't feel the same confidence that the imaginary archangel did. A warm hand clamped down on his shoulder, and for a fleeting moment, Sam was graced with the trademark smile. The illusion disappeared in a gust of flapping wings.

Blinking, the brunet slowly turned and faced his brother. Dean was struggling to stay awake, determined and hard pressed, but he mustered enough strength to openly gape at his sibling.

_Why aren't you moving?!_

Sam can understand the question all too well, years of translating Dean's facial expressions well within his knowledge, and he finally, finally, tosses the rings on the ground and chants. The wind howls and screeches as the maw of Satan's cage reveals itself. Lucifer is surprisingly silent.

He is just a step away from jumping in, but something holds him back. He doesn't have time to question it before Michael is back, demanding Sam to stand down and let the archangel inside him take back the reins.

Sam swallows thickly, but he ignores the shouts. Instead, he gazes into the swirling black pit, terrified and calm simultaneously.

He searches out hesitantly in his mind. _"...Lucifer?"_

There is a beat of silence, and he can feel the archangel' surprise, but he answers him nonetheless.

_"Yes, Sam?"_

_"...That promise you made to me back during our first meeting. You said you'd never lie __to me. Does that still hold true, now?"_

_"Of course, Sam. I will never lie to you."_

Sam takes another shuddering breath. He can do this.

_"So... If I were to ask you something... You promise to answer truthfully?"_

This time, it is Lucifer who pauses, and Sam can't figure out why. He feels as if the ethereal being has separated his emotions.

_"Yes, Sam. You can ask me anything in the knowledge that I will answer truthfully."_

_"Does it hurt?"_

_"...Pardon?"_

_"Being separated from a vessel. Does it hurt?"_

He can hear the angel sigh from somewhere in his mind. Sam can agree with the gesture wholeheartedly.

Lucifer's voice is soft, almost as if he is reliving a memory. He chooses his words carefully. _"Usually, forcible measures of removal are unpleasant for both the host and the angel. __It takes a great deal of power and time to recuperate."_

_"Hmm."_

A tongue darts out across chapped lips, and Sam can't tell if the action is of his own doing or Lucifer's. His throat feels dry.

Sam considers the archangel's words. He can feel the questioning light from Lucifer, and yet, the celestial being has not tried to regain possession of his body in his bout of reflection. Perhaps he had been telling the truth...

It was strange, watching the swirling abyss beckon him forward in a sweet song of his name. Sam stood, transfixed, wondering what lied beneath, what life would be like in hell, if he would ever feel the sun's soft rays ever again. It was strange, and it was terrifying.

_"_Sam_..."_

At first, he thinks it is Lucifer's voice that call his name, but an urgent presence behind him has his body spinning on his heel to face the impatient archangel. Michael looks as if he is restraining himself by only a thin thread of dignity and the underlying preservation for humans, but his vessel's face is pressed into a grim visage, and Sam feels a pang of sorrow for his younger brother.

_I'm so sorry, Adam._

"Sam, stand down. Release my brother so that we may fight as destiny has called us."

He hears the words, but the meaning changes for him entirely. He figures if he goes through with the plan, then world domination might be probable but not imminent. Humanity still might have a chance.

_Release him... Yes, release Lucifer._

Sam closes his eyes as he tilts his head back. He can feel the pit behind him, the cage of Lucifer, and he decides that if he does this, then he won't be coming back. Not at all.

_"Sam," _Lucifer's voice is wary now, a surprising tinge of concern, _"What are you doing?"_

Sam allows a tiny smile to drift on his face, and while he doesn't necessarily feel peaceful about what he is about to do, he embraces the calm if but to temper the archangel inside his body. He's not entirely sure why.

_"Don't try and stop me."_

At once, he can feel Lucifer's sudden grasp of what he is attempting, feels more than hears the insistent _"No!"_, and with a firm but gentle push, he forces the archangel out of his body with a stern demand. The devil's metaphorical hands try and grip his soul tight to prevent the removal, but he can already feel him slipping away from his body, grace shooting out of his mouth and into the sky, far, far away. He hears screaming, but he can't discern whether it comes from Lucifer, Michael, or Dean. He's certain it's not himself, and the emptiness that fills him is unexpected and unwanted. Sam frowns as his eyes remain tightly closed, and Lucifer's words about this hurting seem wrong and mistaken. He doesn't feel pain, only longing and a sense of reprieve.

When it's done, he blinks hesitantly at the light around him, hoping to catch a final glimpse of his brother before he falls or the inhuman grace released from his body. It's Michael who stands before him, however, grabbing his shoulders and screaming at him in a foreign tongue that must be Enochian. Sam is taken by surprise at the sudden force of another archangel tackling him, and he leans backward on instinct, losing his balance and plunging farther into the ground then it should be.

Michael scrambles at him in anger—Sam's almost sure there is a touch of fear there, as well—and together they fall, faster and faster, and the world encloses around them.

Sam watches the daylight slowly fade to black, and he lets his eyelids slip shut once more, accepting his fate.

Before the ground sews back together over his head, he imagines a voice, distant and pleading, regret coming to mind.

_"Sam...!"_

It's strange, but the voice sounds distinctly like that of the archangel who had possessed him.

Then, the world is folding in half, and Sam is swept away into the overwhelming abyss with Michael, fire and brimstone laying behind his eyes as he inhales the thick perfume of ash. The air turns stiff and deadly.

* * *

_A/N: __I myself am not entirely sure what I am doing. But when writing calls, it beckons hard. Before I could realize what I was doing, I had typed up this little fic and shoved it on its merry way. If I continue to find inspiration (and time!), then I might leave this as the prologue to a multi-chaptered story. Who knows..._

_Thanks for reading!_


	2. Chapter One

_A/N: Here it is: the official first chapter! Apologies for the wait. I hope you all continue to enjoy this hectic merry-go-round._

* * *

Chapter One

_Setting fire to our insides for fun..._

Something is wrong. It is the first coherent thought Sam has as he slowly comes to himself, body numb, and pain safely absent. He supposes it is the telltale beginning of shock that has given him immunity, however brief, but for some reason, he cannot bring himself to panic. He wonders where he landed after stumbling through the fantastical cage's doorstep.

Caution urges him to lift his head from the bitter, unforgiving ground to survey his surroundings. A concussion seems inevitable, but like the rest of his limbs, his skull feels fine but numb.

Sam wonders if this is a sign of amnesia.

As he slowly shifts into a sitting position, he can clearly recall the bloodied, broken face of his brother, the righteous fury of the archangel Michael, the tormented scream of Lucifer being forcibly ripped from his body.

He reevaluates the sanity of that split second decision.

_And you caused it..._

He remembers falling backwards increasingly fast, hands fumbling at Adam in a desperate attempt to land together wherever _that _would be, but then, suddenly, there was nothing, darkness surrounding in true chaotic fashion from all sides, and fear—raw, tantalizing fear—so strong, it reminded him of when he had first discovered the seductive possibilities of the demon blood within him.

He also remembers the overwhelming power, the pure feeling of being united, of finding that missing piece that had been absent from the better portion of his life. Sam knows Lucifer was right when he said that they were two halves made whole. He knows the archangel was right because he had _felt it _like a breath of fresh air, a sense of security and the promise of never fearing abandonment ever again. Lucifer had made him feel human again, as weird as it sounds, and the thought terrifies him beyond anything he's ever faced.

Because agreeing with the Devil feels like he's committing some heinous crime—which he probably is in a divine way. It would be a miracle if heaven was to ever accept him now.

Except he won't be seeing heaven ever again. He's fated to be trapped in this cage forever, sentenced to pay this small (_large_) price for the sake of humanity. If all goes well, Dean will manage just fine by himself. It's a painful reminder that Cas is dead for good now, ruined by Lucifer's (his) own hand.

For a brief moment, he considers the chance of seeing Lucifer ever again, but then the thought is swept away by the grief and psychological torture the angel accidentally—purposefully—evoked upon his fragile state. In all accounts, however, Sam supposes the devil thought his actions right in some unfathomable way. He wonders what it's like inside the archangel's mind, what his thoughts are because despite their shortened, conjoined time, Sam never once had the privilege of peering into the other's mind. Instead, he had spent his confinement beating against the door of some luxurious room modeling a hotel suite inside his head that Lucifer had created for and locked him within. He had screamed his lungs hoarse—figuratively speaking, of course—and Lucifer had coaxed him into sleep with unhelpful words of love and adoration, promising that he would let Sam out soon, just wait a tad bit longer.

The devil must have been distracted by his fury when he turned on Castiel, Bobby, and Dean. Somehow, Sam had managed to wriggle out of the locked space in his head to peer through Lucifer's (his) eyes and gape at the sight of his broken brother hanging on to the final vestiges of life by a thread. By the time the archangel had realized his vessel had escaped his room, Sam had felt the onslaught of emotions and memories, and control was almost immediate in his grasp once more.

Now, Sam feels empty, lost, but he won't admit it. Not even down here in Lucifer's cage. It just wouldn't be right.

_And you caused it..._

The atmosphere of his surroundings beckons him, and Sam hears a violent, distant scream scatter the silence into hiding. It echoes off the invisible, intangible walls, and with a shaky breath and a stumbling scramble to his feet, Sam places a hand in front of him and begins to inch toward the direction of the scream. He ignores the numbness as best he can.

_And you caused it..._

Perhaps there is someone down here who he can still save.

...

Dean falls backwards against the bed of the cheap motel room, exhausted eyes sliding closed in an attempt to shut out the rest of the world. It's no good, though. Sam's expression of reserved determination burns brighter even in his mind's eye. It haunts Dean, knowing where his brother is now, how he fell into the cage with intention.

And now Lucifer is somehow, somewhere MIA in this big world. It would be a shock of he was still in the states.

No matter what Dean does, he cannot ignore the fact that his little brother, Sammy, tumbled into the cage for no reason at all other than a cruel trick of fate. The plan had been for both Sam _and _Satan to take the swan dive together into the cage as one, not as separate entities. And by some inexplicable reason, it is Sam who is in hell now and Lucifer who is topside.

It doesn't make sense. It _shouldn't _make sense.

A faint rustle beside the bed tells him he is not alone, but for once, Dean cannot be bothered to entertain. He has had enough of angels for one day, and as happy as he is that Cas is back, he just does not want to talk about it. At all.

Unfortunately, Castiel is just as perceptive as ever. He sits down on the bed next to Dean, the movement unfamiliar and shockingly human. Dean knows it is all a ploy, and he throws his arm over his eyes for good measure.

He had parted ways with Bobby just over a half hour ago. Seems like paying death a visit necessitated a call for isolation, at least temporary. Not _Death_ death, the individual, but death, the noun. Or adjective. Dean didn't know; he'd slept most of the time in the few English classes he'd ever had. It's a good thing he had never needed an actual job. Hell knows what the interviews would have gone like.

"Dean."

He knows he'll have to check up on his father figure of a hunter later on, make sure he is ok. Managing. Dean suspects the answer to that will be neither.

"Dean..."

The blond doesn't respond, hoping the angel will get the message. He's had enough of feathered dicks for one day, including Cas. Just the thought of anything angelic has Dean's thoughts centering on a certain brother who had said yes to one of them, a brother who should be here... and not an ungodly amount of feet down below in some fiery pit.

"Dean."

Cas is beginning to sound firm now. That's ok, Dean has had years of practice ignoring the voice of persistent people. Sammy gave him the best practice for that.

_Sam_...

"Dean, enough of this. You cannot lie about all day and pretend none of this has happened. The world will not tolerate it. _I _will not tolerate it."

Clenching his jaw, Dean feels that age old anger steadily returning, amassing in the pit of his stomach and heralding a fire he has been fanning and adding to over the years. It's about to be directed towards the one innocent angel in all of this, and Dean couldn't be bothered to stop it.

He keeps his mouth shut, his eyes closed, and his body locked still in a meager display at trying to rein it in.

Cas is just as insistent as he is persistent.

"Dean, Lucifer is free. His vessel is where he last left it. With the brief unity he had with Sam's soul, his power has grown and strengthened, and it will not take much on his part to sustain Nick's body this time. He will rise again."

"...And what the bloody hell do you expect me to do about it?"

His own, monotone voice surprises him, and the sudden silence suggests that he must have surprised Cas as well. It wouldn't be the first time it's happened.

"Find him. Find Lucifer. Research methods of attack. Plan an emergency meeting with your fellow hunters to construct a preferred course of action. Do _something_."

Dean breathes through his mouth. "Yeah, I'm rather fine here, thanks."

The shift in the air is unexpected and dangerous. He feels the bed rise as Cas stands. "Dean, I am serious. You cannot just lie about as you please! Millions of people will die if you do nothing! Do you really expect Lucifer to just sit idle, now that his true vessel is absent from the predestined apocalypse?"

The anger finally takes hold. Dean's on his feet and glaring at Cas, but the angel is not done.

"Lucifer's rage will wreak havoc on the earth, and he will not stop until he has found a way to raise Sam once again. _He will not stop until your brother is by his side once more_."

"Sam going AWOL was not on my agenda!" Dean jabbed a finger at the angel's chest. "I didn't expect any of this to happen, ok?! Lucifer and Sam were supposed to jump in that pit _together_, and if Sam couldn't take control, then it was all to hell and every man for himself. How am I supposed to react to this Cas?" He steps closer, standing in the angel's space and burning holes into the unnaturally blue eyes. "How?!"

A beat of silence settles uncomfortably between the two. Dean can see the angel physically restraining the fury inside of him, but that's not forcing Dean on holding back. He drops his hand and turns his back on Cas, unable to look him in the eye anymore. It's too much, too soon. He needs time to adjust, time to drink the night away and think about how Sam can no longer have that pleasure as well.

His life is screwed.

"Dean..." There is slight remorse in Castiel's voice now, but it only makes Dean angrier.

"I've lost everything, Cas. Sam was my purpose in life, and with him gone, I just can't be bothered to care anymore. Not now. So, leave, Cas. Before I do something I might regret."

He waits a minute before turning around to see that the motel room is vacant aside from him. The angel didn't put up a fight this time to try and stay.

Dean realizes it makes him feel upset for some unfathomable reason. His keys are in his hands and the motel room's door slamming shut behind him before he can wonder why.

...

The sky has clouded and begun to darken by the time Dean reaches a nearby rest stop. He hadn't bothered with restaurant names, and the first one he saw had seemed fine to him. He doesn't care anymore. All he can think of is Sam, Sam, his stupid, selfless brother who jumped into that pit for humanity.

What he can't understand is why. Why his brother thought it to be a good idea to go gung-ho into Lucifer's cage without actual freakin' _Lucifer_. It doesn't make any sense, but maybe a few drinks will change that.

Dean stumbles through the door of the restaurant that gives a disgustingly cheerful chime, his gaze flicking over the people dining inside, and he can't help thinking that none of them realize their precious lives were just saved by someone who made a very invaluable sacrifice. The thought makes his gut churn like acid.

A waitress offers to escort him to a booth, but he waves it off in favor of sidling up to a barstool and staring absentmindedly at the sparkling rows of glasses behind the counter. None of them look strong enough to cure his headache of guilt.

He settles for something relatively mild, and as he knocks the drink back, his throat burns and his eyes water, and he can't help but feel like hell for trying to associate his pain with Sam's. The bartender keeps his rounds supplied, and Dean ignores the hours that meld one past the other. The night grows outside, and the customers slowly filter out one by one, but Dean retains his throne of self-loathing on the simple barstool. A few patrons also keep the bar company.

Over time, the waitress that offered him a booth scoots around the counter and pours herself a drink. She pulls a seat out from underneath the granite tabletop and eyes him, intrigued.

"You're one of them, aren't you?"

Dean blinks up from his empty glass, surprised to hear words directed at him. His voice slurs a bit, but nothing to be too concerned about.

"Sorry?"

She nods at his slouched form. "Endless drinking into oblivion. Tired eyes that probably haven't gotten sleep in several days. The "my life is a screw up" face. You're one of the guys that thinks if you spend countless hours at some nameless bar as a salutation to your misery, some way you'll be able to redeem yourself for all the mistakes you've made and inevitably will make in the future. You think this a method of punishment and coping, but let me tell you, it's not."

The blonde waitress draws her hair behind her head as she raises an eyebrow expectantly at him. Dean stares in disbelief at her, scoffing as he shakes his head and resumes the staring match with his empty drink.

"You know nothing about me, darling. So, why don't you go play psychiatrist to one of the other contenders here."

"Maybe I find you more interesting than the others." Dean meets her eyes as she picks up her drink and takes a sip.

Rolling his eyes, he leans back on his seat, realizing she probably won't leave until he turns down her advances. "Sorry, sweetheart," he flashes her a mock smile, face painfully constricting with the foreign movement. "I'm already taken." An image of Lisa flashes to mind and how he'd promised Sam that he would go to her after this was all over. The problem was it wasn't over. It was far from over, but that didn't mean Dean couldn't pretend.

The waitress smiles patiently at him. "So am I, sugar." Her ring clinks loudly against her glass as she taps a finger. "But that's not why I'm trying to make conversation. I find you interesting because I think you can be saved."

"Saved," Dean echoes, internally hoping she's not one of those overly religious people.

"Yes, saved. I can tell by the way you're sitting, staring at your drink that you haven't been fighting with yourself for long. So, something bad must have happened recent. Maybe today. The point is there's emotion on your face—anger—and none of the other guys who come in here to drink their life away have facial expressions to accompany their distress. You've been hurt by your own decisions, and you think punishing yourself will make you feel better, but it won't. Instead, you'll just keep coming back here, day after day because the headache and hangovers aren't enough. You can still feel the pain that accompanies the hurt in your chest, and it won't ever go away. Not unless you do something about it."

Dean gapes at her as if she just grew a second head before he's slamming down his drink and tossing a few bills on the bar counter. He stands up, murder in his eyes, and it only makes him angrier when he sees it doesn't intimidate her.

'You don't know jack," he growls lowly.

"No, I do." She tips her head back to accommodate her shortened height, eyes just as narrowed as his. "I know because I've seen cases like yours come in every day and night, desperate for some escape because they think they've committed the most unlawful sin of all mankind, but they're wrong. You're no different from them, and if you think wasting your life on some cheap beverage is going to fix any of that, then you have another thing coming your way."

She steps closer to him, and Dean is suddenly grateful for the granite barrier between them. He doesn't know why he finds her a sudden threat.

"The only way you'll ever fix the mistakes you've made is if you actually _try_ to fix them. Getting drunk doesn't solve anything except the steady income for my manager's bills. You wanna talk a relaxing night free from stress, ok, we'll talk. But don't come back in here until you've realized that the solution to your own problems is yourself." She picks up a rag and begins to wipe the counter.

Dean ogles her for a few seconds, unable to move from the spot he stands. He watches the blonde buff away the ringlets left behind by other perspiring glasses, and he can't help but think that maybe this complete stranger has spoken the truth. The only inclination he receives of it is from the way her words stabbed each and every fear written across his heart.

He thinks maybe it might be an angel in disguise. One who actual cares for humanity and not just focused on fulfilling the damned prophecy.

The waitress finishes with his section and moves on to another part of the bar, rag in hand. She doesn't speak to any of the other patrons, and as Dean looks at their faces, he sees that she is right. There is no emotion on any of their faces.

Digging into his pockets, Dean pulls out another bill, larger than the rest of the ones he'd lain down combined, and finding a pen on the counter, he scribbles a hasty "thank you" and tosses it with the rest of the money before he can regret doing so.

The door chimes once more as he exits the restaurant and heads to the Impala, and Dean can't help but think that the bell doesn't sound quite as awful as it did when he'd first arrived.

…

Smoke is a strange, faithful companion of hell, Sam decides.

The air tastes bitter and fowl, much to be expected when in the forsaken realm of biblical accuracy, but Sam can't help but wish the atmosphere was a bit more accommodating if he was going to be spending eternity here.

A sharp, disbelieving laugh escapes him as he covers his mouth to protect it from inhaling the fumes. Whoever thought he'd be appraising hell's otherworldly aspects so that he could find it homier was beyond him. Someone had to have a sense of humor if his life was being dictated.

Pausing briefly, Sam coughs into his wrist as he scans the area. No further screams had sounded, but he knows Michael or at least Adam has to be here. His body was beginning to feel the dregs of falling God-knows-how-many feet into the cage. It wouldn't be long before those remains escalated into a full blown attack of excruciating pain on his body, and Sam was determined to find the others before he collapsed. He'd thought it wouldn't take him long to locate at least one of the two, but as it turned out, Lucifer's cage expanded across an entire labyrinth of desolate fields of rock and unending fiery skies.

Sam's frame racks once more with a sobering cough, and he blinks around the mist that dances in his eyes. Time is running out, and there are no indications that he can follow to find Michael or Adam. It's disheartening, and he wishes for not the first time that he wasn't alone.

But no, he quickly reminds himself. Even Lucifer would not have been acceptable company. The archangel probably would have found sport in torturing his vessel instead. Sam shudders at the thought.

He hears scraping to his left, and a form slowly materializes to life in the swirling ash around them. Sam squints at the figure, and he is relieved to see the familiar face of his younger brother, breathing heavily but very much alive.

He steps tentatively forward, cautious of whom he might be approaching. His eyes roam the otherwise healthy body before him.

"Adam…?" He ventures a guess, hoping dearly for a companion who he could console.

The figure straightens, shoulders stretching back broadly with pride and years of reverence, and Sam realizes immediately that his guess was wrong. Adam's body steps forward without its own volition, and Sam can't contain the lump that has suddenly swelled inside his throat.

"Hello, Sam," Michael states coolly, eyes bright with ethereal grace and righteous anger. He extends two fingers, and before he can react, Sam feels their cold, marble feel on his forehead. The world shifts into layers of black and grey once more, and strong arms catch his falling form as his head spins dizzily into unconsciousness once more.

He can't help but think before he passes out that Lucifer would have shielded him from this. That he would have done something to sideline Michael's thirst for vengeance and redemption.

Then, he drifts underwater.

…

Detroit is different this time of year.

The streets are lifeless, and the wind is dead as Cas stands in the middle of destruction encompassing the city. Not a trace of a human soul can be found, and the angel doesn't have to envision too much to guess what became of the carnage.

A light mist hangs headily in the air as Castiel slowly makes his way down the middle of one of the dirty roads. He shifts his gaze from building to desolated building, all of them absent of life and looking unsurprisingly apocalyptic.

His eyes sweep over the area, searching in between nooks and crannies invisible to a simple human. He searches, and he finds nothing. Not a single person.

Cas frowns, troubled as the realization dawns on him. There are no humans. No remnants of fragile vessels who tried to escape.

There is literally nothing here. Nick's body is missing. And so is Lucifer.

* * *

_A/N: Comments? Suggestions? I would appreciate your all's feedback. Thanks for reading!_


	3. Chapter Two

_Lying, Sam learns, is an angelically inherited trait._

* * *

Chapter Two

When Sam awakens, it's to the smell of sulfur and fire, and his eyes immediately snap open.

_Demon_, his hunter instincts tell him, but he can't seem to get his body to function. His limbs feel like dead weight, watery and immovable, and the strength in his legs seems to have completely taken flight. He expects his breathing to be ragged from panic, chest fluttering like a bird's wings, but the rest of his body is just as manipulated and controlled, his heart straining to beat erratically without success.

_Not good. Definitely not good._

Sam's mouth drops open in a gasp as his eyes widen, and he stares straight ahead at the invisible canvas of a ceiling above him, freedom a cruel mockery that taunts him even now. He is a prisoner to his own body, trapped and conscious, and he wishes nothing more than to be blissfully unknowing once again.

It takes a moment of stunned silence for Sam to feel it. A low thrumnear tangible just underneath his skin, flowing through his veins and stirring and very much _alive_.

Sam's chest expands in a vibrant need for air, but no further noise escapes him. He feels his heart maintain that maddeningly steady tempo as if he were in a lull. An energy pure and white blazes through his body, and while he doesn't recognize the sudden pain, the burning sensation is new and familiar, and he feels raw fear fill his being.

The grace is agony and unwelcome as Sam's body struggles to reject it. Light courses around his soul—a callous derision of protection. Sam cringes at the feeling because while Lucifer had orbited his soul much in the same way, it had been more intimate and whole in a shell of comfort, nothing like the false security that this foreign grace provides.

Michael hums thoughtfully inside his mind as if attuned to his every thought, and Sam realizes with horrifying subjugation that he _is. _The archangel commands his body now, and even his own mind is exposed to that rule.

He feels himself flinch at the revelation, but his body doesn't react at all.

"Be still, Sam Winchester. I could have very easily found some other way to torture you, but I find this form far more beneficial to the both of us."

It's his voice and his lips that move, but the words are not his own. Sam grits his teeth, relieved that he has at least that tiny freedom of stress relief, but it's hardly anything compared to the monstrosity of the situation at hand. He feels his body temperature remain at an erringly normal degree, and the risk of fever only builds upon a fantastical thought inside his head. The words _tyranny_ and _thief_ and _liar _come to mind, an image that irrevocably suits Michael and describes everything Lucifer _was not_.

Stiff laughter rumbles past his lips, devoid of amusement or levity. "Even now, you do not cease to amaze me, Sam. To look upon Lucifer as a god is nothing but heresy. But I do suppose he is your human equivalent to a hero." Michael forces Sam's body to stand, muscles straining and blood pulsing sluggishly. It feels like fire, and his skin is a combustion of flames. "Not to worry. Thanks to you, Lucifer is free _again_. Free to do as he pleased because some little boy thought he could save the world from damnation by trusting instinct instead of authority. Tell me, Sam, does _any _of this sound familiar?"

"_Stop it."_ Sam whispers inside of his head, wishing so desperately that he could shut out the mocking archangel inside his body.

"It will never stop, Samuel. Not with what you've done. You will be doomed to spend the rest of eternity here, tormented until the sound of your own screams will be the only comfort in this forsaken hell."

Sam stares out at the expanse before them, nothing but darkness and reddened earth stretching for miles beyond. He shudders from the inside and feels as though he will surely burn from the foreign light possessing his every move. However, as Michael merely stands there, Sam vaguely realizes through the pain that the angelic being is waiting for something to happen, and the need to have answers to questions becomes instantly prominent to Sam. He grits his teeth and fights back nausea for a moment.

"_How did you jump aboard my body without my consent? Why aren't you burning through me? I thought Dean or Adam were your only choices for a vessel."_

"I never asked for your permission while on Earth because you were Lucifer's destined vessel," Michael states coolly. "Claiming you would have been counterproductive to ending the apocalypse. I couldn't fight my brother in a vessel that was not mine or his. It is not written in the scriptures of fate. But you should know this. Lucifer was responsible in making sure your consent was wholeheartedly devoted to his cause so that no innocent blood would be shed when I fought him."

Michael sighed deeply as if this was to be expected. "It would seem my brother has not yet learned the principles of obedience. Yet, he still tries to defy what was predestined ages before you were born."

Sam longs to shift from the immovable stance the archangel has taken, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. The grace still burns him from the inside out, and his hands curl slightly, aching to claw the flames from his body to relieve the pain. Whether Michael acknowledges his agony or not remains unknown as narrowed eyes gaze impassively upward in wait.

It takes a moment for Sam to realize that the archangel didn't answer both of his questions. Before he can voice this, however, Michael reads his mind and silences his protests.

"Consent is a distinct privilege, Sam Winchester. You should feel honored to know that an angel specifically needs your permission to share a body with you." Sam realizes that Michael is not referring to just him; he is referencing humanity in general. "To be able to house an angel and become their vessel is a token honor that we hold highly in heaven. Every angel has his own vessel, but since few ever venture to your planet, only a choice selection of humans are fit for such a task. To become an archangel's chosen, however. _That_ is something not even the holiest of creatures are worthy of." Michael has dropped Sam's voice steadily, and while it is uncomfortable and excruciatingly hot to simply stand and listen to the archangel speak, Sam does his best to focus on the lilting syllables and soft words that are a near struggle to hear through the fire and angel's drifting sadness. "It is a privilege, and while I may not condone my brother's actions, Sam, I am not so petty as to ignore the true form of special that comes within the same breath of your name. You had a purpose, and while it was to serve the forces of evil in your world, it was still a purpose fit only for a king."

Michael is near silent now, but Sam hears his next words as if he were shouting them.

"Yes . . . The purpose of a king. Truly, they were correct when they spoke of you as the Boy King of Hell. A fitting title I believe Lucifer bestowed upon you eons ago."

Sam feels emotions rage through his chest, and for once, he cannot tell if they are his own. His eyes flicker with water, but in the next moment, the moisture is gone.

He does not want to talk about noble gestures or kingly purposes. He doesn't want to be reminded of his life led upon brick by brick on a patterned road that the demons had planned accordingly. He doesn't want to know of the free life he had thought he'd found in Stanford when in reality, he had been making decisions exactly akin to what Hell's forces had wanted him to follow. He doesn't want to think of how every choice he's made, every thought he's had, have all in some way benefitted Lucifer, up to the very point where he cast aside free will and bowed down to limitless power and controlling reign when he said _yes_ to the prince of darkness.

He doesn't want to think of any of that, so he focuses on the pain instead, and a final question looms to the forefront of his mind.

"_Where is Adam?"_

Michael must have been expecting such an inquiry because his response is quick, efficient.

"Adam is taken care of. You have him to thank for an eternity of companionship in this cage. I'm sure you two will find a way to amuse yourselves in the boundless range of time before you."

"_Bastard_," Sam snarls, anger hollowing out his vision, and for a moment, he can't see what's in front of him.

"Your angel friend, Castiel, is on his way to retrieve you from this hellhole in hopes of righting all the wrongs you have committed. I'm afraid to regrettably say that young Castiel is not strong enough to raise you from the very bowels of this place. He will snatch your body, but your soul will not be able to endure the sudden transition, and consequently, it will be separated from your vessel."

"_And it'll give you a free ride out of here_," Sam finishes in understanding, shock and hatred clouding his senses. He can now see nothing at all around him, and he believes it has partially to do with the archangel that has further shoved him into the cramped space of his own mind, grace licking around him on all sides.

Outside, Michael hums thoughtfully. "Apparently, your angel has yet to be anything but punctual. Here he comes now."

Trapped inside of his own body, Sam strains to hear what is happening around them, and a distant tremor in his feet tells him that the ground is shaking. Violently.

The magnitude of what is about to happen hits Sam swiftly and unexpectedly, and panic fills his core. If what Michael says is true, then Castiel will lift them out of the cage, but he will mistake Michael's grace for the purity of Sam's soul, and consequently, when Sam is ultimately forced out of his own body, Cas will be none the wiser.

It's like a thousand nightmares occurring in his head all at once, and Sam feels his breathing stutter for the first time.

"_What will you do?" _He chokes out, desperate to know. _"What will you do to him?"_

The archangel understands the question all too well. He turns their gaze to the ground, and though Sam cannot see it, he feels the shift in his neck.

"_I will finish what I set off to do. The apocalypse shall be averted. Lucifer _will_ die."_

The grace squeezing around his soul suddenly moves away from it, switching to a gathering ball of white light and fire. And as Sam feels his body being grabbed with force and hauled skyward, the grace pushes as far away from his soul as possible before ramming into it with archangelic power that lights his very essence ablaze.

Sam screams in agony, feels as if he is splitting in two, and just before he is fully knocked back, he wonders with dismal clarity if this is what he really wanted. For himself or Lucifer.

Teeth clench and eyes clamp shut as grace pours from him. When the flames finally die out and every inch of him is not pulsating with the threat of erupting into its own inferno, he slowly blinks open bleary eyes.

Only this time, the cage is silent and so is Michael. Sam glances down at himself and stares with utter horror and surety of the archangel's words as he realizes what just happened.

Michael escaped with Castiel. Once more, Sam is well and truly alone.

Storm clouds billow and multiply over the city as time progresses. No matter where he steps, they follow him in the shadows, a side effect of his uncontrollable rage and concern. Rain becomes a swift constant as the streets and buildings drown in its deluge, the inhabitants of the city scurrying across the dead sidewalks in a brave attempt to make it indoors.

Despite it being the month of May, the rain is more of a winter storm than a warm downfall. News reports have begun to flock about, confused at this unexpected change in weather and wondering what could be the cause.

He doesn't care. Before word can begin to spread, he will be gone, carrying the winds with him.

Stubbornness has always been a trait of his, written into his genetic code from the moment of creation. He will not balk at some petty human trivialities, but his concern does begin to fester and grow as a plan of action becomes necessary and wont.

Yet another nameless town in another nameless country, but details are inconsequential. He breathes over the window he stares out of, air condensing and fogging into visible particles until it maps across the glass in an icy fixture. Fingers twitch at his side in anticipation to mark his masterpiece, but the memory is far too vivid and fresh in his mind, and with a wave of his hand, the ice disappears.

He needs to do something. Despite the extra allotted time his vessel has been given, it will eventually run out and so will his energy. He needs to reestablish a committee of faithful, mindless servants.

He needs to bring back Sam.

The glow of the room is lit only by the decaying natural light from outside, but it is enough for his eyes to sweep the invisible cluster of countries in front of him. Pinpoints litter the map in his mind's eye, places he has gone and will be heading towards. Returning to Detroit is out of the question. Even though Castiel is a far lesser angel than he, unnecessary fights are not his style. He'd rather like to think of himself as a peacemaker.

The wind howls outside, and with it carries a different tune, a message.

The sound is instantly picked up by him, unheard by human ears, but he is not deceived. It is a song, a song of revelation and bitter rejoicing, but something is wrong with the tone of the message. It should sound lighthearted and overjoyed, but instead, it is beginning to sound more and more like a call of distress as the seconds pass. Something is terribly wrong and off-key.

Spreading his wings, Lucifer takes flight in search of the messenger who proclaims of the resurfaced Sam Winchester. He leaves the storms behind in his wake.

Dean had expected to get particularly smashed the previous night. Waking up to a hangover had been fitted into his agenda, but instead of trusting his guilt complex, he had listened to that blonde chic at the diner, and now, he isn't waking up to an overwhelming headache.

Instead, there's a pile of angel to greet him in the morning.

"Cas! The _hell_?"

Castiel collapses into his arms, bloodied and beaten, and his frame shudders in a gesture that is far too human.

"Apologies, Dean. I will remove myself once I have the strength," the angel rasps from where his face is smothered in the blankets.

Dean shifts under Cas and the hotel blankets as he tries to clamber up into a sitting position against the headboard of the bed. Castiel is a sight to behold in his red soaked clothes and marred face, and Dean cannot help but instantly panic.

"Cas! _Are you alright?!"_

"I would be much better if you would refrain from screaming in my ear," comes the mumbled reply.

Dean scrambles off the bed, headless of throwing any jeans on, and he carefully wraps an arm under the angel and rolls him over. Castiel groans, but other than that, he does not make any indication of pain.

"Easy now. Do I need to get you anything? Water? Angel medicine?" He frowns at Cas. "A beer?"

"Some peace of mind would be quite splendid right now, Dean."

Huffing, the Winchester backs away, hands raised in surrender. "Sheesh. I got it. Don't bother the PMSing angel."

"I do not . . ." Castiel starts but cuts himself off in favor of ignoring the modern term. He breathes raggedly, chest rising and falling with shattered gasps of air, and Dean is suddenly reminded of the gravity of the situation because angels don't need to breathe.

He shuffles his bare feet, eyes filled with worry, and he can't help but feel useless. "Will you be alright?" His voice is much softer this time around, and the quietness must shift something in Cas because he finally locks eyes with the blond.

"I will be fine, Dean. I merely caught myself in a battle with an archangel."

_. . .What?_

"Uh, come again?"

Cas growls this time, and Dean can't tell if it's from pain or frustration. Probably both.

"Michael. I fought Michael the archangel. He was possessing your brother's body, and I realized this all a moment too late."

"Cas, no offense, but you are making zero sense. Tell you what. Let's get you situated and fixed . . .or whatever, and then, you can discuss what the hell happened to you."

"I do not need assistance." Now, that sounded more like the fire and brimstone angel he knew.

Dean nodded his head as he hooked an arm under Castiel's shoulders and heaved him to his feet. "I have no doubt about that. But let's just run through the preliminaries to make sure that you're not about to pass out on me and die."

Cas draws silent once more as they head over to the dingy bathroom. Dean's not sure if this should worry him or not.

Seating the angel on the rim of the bathtub, he leans Cas against the wall to make sure he won't fall off, and then he grabs a white towel and douses it with water from the sink. Once the material is thoroughly soaked with cold water, Dean turns around and kneels, lightly dabbing the towel against Castiel's face. He grimaces as the white of the cloth quickly fades to crimson.

It is only after the third time of rinsing out the towel and repeating the process does Cas place a gentle hand on Dean's shoulder and stop him from edging closer with the offensively pink material.

"It is fine, Dean. I'm feeling better now. But thank you." His gruff voice does little to reassure the Winchester, but he nods stiffly and tosses the towel into the trash bin.

Many of the cuts on the angel's face have already sealed shut, grace working to efficiently heal his vessel. Dean watches in slight awe as a long gash on Cas's arm stitches together, mending skin and tissue and returning back to its healthy tint. Cas has closed his eyes as he seems to struggle with his grace for a moment, jaw clenching and brows furrowing in concentration.

When his eyes flash back open, blue and ethereal, Dean breathes a sigh of relief.

"So, you'll be ok, I guess?"

Cas smiles for the first time that morning, slow and tiny as if he is still adapting to human gestures, but the principle is still there.

"Thank you, Dean. My grace undertook quite a toll, but it seems to be repairing the damage done to this body just fine."

They exit the bathroom, and after a vast quantity of insisting on Dean's part and a few protests from Castiel, they both sit down at the small table and chairs that accommodate the room, glasses of liquor in hand.

Cas stares at the liquid as if it will burn him from the inside, and he pointedly takes a very small sip only after Dean threatens to toss him out the hotel room. (They both know the threat is mindless and without any truth behind it, but it's the thought that counts.)

"This is most unhealthy for your consumption, Dean."

The blond shrugs, throwing back his glass. "Eh, it's five o'clock somewhere."

Cas smiles secretively, as if partaking of a joke shared between them, but his gaze lingers on the drink.

Dean nudges his arm, and indigo eyes flick back up to his. "So, are you gonna tell me what happened or are you going to carry out your own personal retribution tour?"

"The archangel Michael is back."

"Yeah, I gathered that much. How?"

Cas looks ashamed then, and Dean can't help the feeling that tells him he isn't going to like what he's about to hear.

The angel frowns and drops his gaze to Dean's own glass, unseeing. "I brought Michael back. Upon a misfortunate accident."

Sighing, Dean leans forward in his chair, hands folding on top of the table. He double checks to make sure his voice doesn't shake. "You brought Michael back? Like the way you got me out of Hell?"

"Yes, but I had to assemble a small militia to reach you, Dean. Demons fought to keep you locked away. However, this time, I journeyed to the farthest pits of Hell where the cage resides, and I snatched your brother's body as quickly as I could." Cas bows his head, eyes drifting closed as if reliving the scene behind his eyelids. "I . . .didn't have much time to save Sam. Consequently, my judgment was not the best in those few split seconds I spent in Hell. I sensed Sam as soon as I entered the cage, but at the time, I did not realize the energy emanating from him was the grace of Michael.

"My brother possessed yours in a foolish attempt to escape his imprisonment, and I was . . . blind enough to fall for it."

Dean's eyes have widened at this point, and he unconsciously edges farther against the table, eager to hear about the rest of Castiel's venture.

". . . And Sam?"

Cas sighs once more, finally looking back up at Dean. His eyes swim with regret, and Dean feels the ball drop in his stomach. "In my eagerness to save your brother, I mistook Michael's grace for Sam's soul and inevitably separated the two. Michael escaped from Hell posing as Sam, and Sam's soul is still locked away inside the cage, no longer within my reach."

With the angel's last words, the room falls silent once more. Dean doesn't dare to breathe, doesn't try to move because once he's knocked out of his trance, he fears what his actions will encourage him to do.

He's not ready to become hostile yet.

Cas refuses to meet his gaze, staring forlornly at the untouched glass in his hands. The liquid swirls around lightly, light glinting off of its surface. Dean focuses on that instead of the being sitting across from him.

Inhaling deeply, he counts to ten, then twenty, then thirty, and then back to zero, but the tension doesn't leave his shoulders. He feels that if someone were to poke them with one finger, he'd fall over on his side and crash.

He'd crash and burn, just like he and Sam used to always do. But then, they'd always had each other, hadn't they?

Dean clears his throat, and the noise startles Cas, but he doesn't acknowledge the clear intent on Dean's behalf.

Dean decides to go for it regardless. May as well ask the sixty-four dollar question anyways.

"So . . . why not just go back and get Sam the same way you did Michelangelo here?"

"Because he can't."

Before he can think, Dean is on his feet, gun in hand, and Castiel has stood up as well. The metal of his angel blade glistens at his side, clear and threatening.

For a moment, no one breathes, but then, Dean realizes he is the only one that actually requires oxygen, and he exhales profusely.

Ice blue eyes track the movement with feigned interest, and Dean feels himself stiffen underneath that gaze. He swallows but raises his weapon meaningfully.

Cas steps forward, and those crystalline eyes flick away from Dean and over to the angel. The Winchester feels himself breathe a sigh of relief, but his stance does not lessen by any degree.

A silent standoff seems to occur between the two entities, challenging to one and amusing to the other. Castiel is the first to break the silence as his chin lowers, narrows eyes fixed angrily on the angel before them.

"Lucifer."

The archangel gives his trademark chilling smile, and Dean shudders at the familiarity of it as the entity takes a step closer to Cas.

"Hello, little brother."

* * *

_A/N: Thoughts? Suggestions? Let me know in a review._


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